There's a fall nip in the air.
This being November in Los Angeles, the nip will be gone by morning, but still: nip. And it's welcome, because it means my Summer of Suck is drawing to a close.
Since I'm starting to feel a little less numb, and things are starting to get a little more interesting, here are some updates on some ongoing stories. Prepare to release your bated breath.
--
Whatever Ron and I are fumbling towards, I don't think it's a great romance.
One night, we hunkered down at the bar and hashed things out a little. He's kind of in relationship spin-out, realizing that he's not on the same page as twentysomething party girls anymore, but not quite sure how else to do anything.
"But I like hanging out with you," he hastened to add.
"So what's wrong with just hanging out?" I asked.
So, we hang out every now and then. Which in our case mainly means late-night texting. 'Cause, y'know, heaven forbid either of us get up off our asses.
Anyway, if I had been harboring any illusions, they would have been dispelled when he didn't show up for my birthday party.
--
"So what's up with you and Dylan?" Tracy asked me at said birthday party. It was a Sunday evening, and most of the attendees had come and gone -- which was the whole point of scheduling it to start late-afternoon on a Sunday, so people could drop in and leave whenever -- and a bunch of us who don't have day jobs were still sitting around Ruby's dining room.
"Nothing, really," I said. "Sometimes he emails me and says he wants to smell my hair, but nothing ever comes of it."
"He's such a freak," she snorted.
I looked around the room and saw a dominatrix, a vegan financial planner, a girl who plays some mean slide guitar, a rocket scientist, a performance artist and two Yankees fans.
"Well, sure," I said. "But aren't we all?"
In truth, Dylan and I are in touch a little more than I let on to Tracy, but the upshot's the same. We never get beyond him telling me he wants to see me and my hair, and me asking him what day and time works for him.
Dylan is like a little boy running up to the very edge of the ocean and jumping away when a wave comes towards him, and I'm already standing ankle deep. I'm hoping he'll tiptoe in, but my toehold is shallow enough for me to stalk off when I get tired of the whole game. And I think that day's coming very soon. I'm starting to feel more like my self again. Look, out world. I'm not totally back yet, but I'm back enough that you might want to start looking over your shoulder.
--
Finally, one for my stacked sisters: I have found a strapless bra that actually works for me -- and it's not even a longline. Seriously. It exists! It's the New York style by Lunaire, available at many fine and not-so-fine retailers for under $40. The mechanics of a strapless bra in this size dictates that the front part comes up too high for you to wear anything terribly low-cut, and it's not going to do much to enhance your cleavage -- but it holds those puppies up and steady, and you don't have to enlist another person to help you put it on. Go forth and wear tube tops.
Monday, November 02, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Least expected reminder ever
Much to the dismay of the people who depend on me having adventures for them to experience vicariously -- a group which includes many of my married friends and, possibly, you -- my head just hasn't been in the whole sex thing lately. I've had too much other crap to deal with. Also, boys are stupid.
While this summer didn't do much for my sex life, I did improve my casual gaming skills. That's... something, right?
Last week, I was playing Huje Tower. It's a blatant World of Goo knockoff which, while not as vast as WoG has the advantages of being in-browser and free.
When you pick up the absolutely-not-Goos, some of them squeak reactions: "Ow! Ow! Ow!" "Who is it? Who is it?" And, most amusing to me, "OH my God."
See, back when I was hooking up with Elvis, we'd have ourselves the occasional fun, though not earth-shattering, roll in the hay. (Hay... sheets... just go with it, 'k?) He liked me to ride him, but beyond that, his communications skills could have stood some work. I'd know that I finally hit the right combination of force, speed and angle when I heard him gasp, "OH my God OH my God OH my God..." in a rhythm and cadence I hadn't heard before or since.
Until I played this game.
So, those of you who are disappointed by the recent lack of sex stories, go play Huje Tower, listen for the "OH my God," and imagine hearing that for long stretches. Within ten minutes you, too, will wonder why I fucked the guy more than once. Enjoy the game anyway.
While this summer didn't do much for my sex life, I did improve my casual gaming skills. That's... something, right?
Last week, I was playing Huje Tower. It's a blatant World of Goo knockoff which, while not as vast as WoG has the advantages of being in-browser and free.
When you pick up the absolutely-not-Goos, some of them squeak reactions: "Ow! Ow! Ow!" "Who is it? Who is it?" And, most amusing to me, "OH my God."
See, back when I was hooking up with Elvis, we'd have ourselves the occasional fun, though not earth-shattering, roll in the hay. (Hay... sheets... just go with it, 'k?) He liked me to ride him, but beyond that, his communications skills could have stood some work. I'd know that I finally hit the right combination of force, speed and angle when I heard him gasp, "OH my God OH my God OH my God..." in a rhythm and cadence I hadn't heard before or since.
Until I played this game.
So, those of you who are disappointed by the recent lack of sex stories, go play Huje Tower, listen for the "OH my God," and imagine hearing that for long stretches. Within ten minutes you, too, will wonder why I fucked the guy more than once. Enjoy the game anyway.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
She's on the beach
Southern California's hot, late-summer days are meant for spending in air-conditioned biomes. They are not meant for spending most of the day outdoors in direct sunlight filtered by brush fire ash, as my friend Tracy and I had committed to doing. When we finished up our last task around 9:30, we each went to our respective homes to hydrate and collapse.
Tracy must have gotten a second wind, because around midnight, she texted me and asked if I wanted to meet her and her friend Dylan at a cantina that's about midway between our abodes. I was feeling better, and it's not like I had anything else to do. I threw on some clothes, slapped on a little makeup, and jumped in the the car.
By the time I got to the cantina, thigs had finally cooled off. It was the perfect weather for sitting on the patio, splitting cheap pitchers of beer. Tracy was already a little tipsy. Dylan was watching in amusement.
Tracy went up to the bar to get us shots. Dylan gave me a once-over.
"You look hot tonight," he told me. "I like your hair hanging down like that."
"Thanks," I replied. As he has no hair to speak of, I added, "That's a nice shirt."
We held each other's gazes until Tracy got back. Dylan and I haven't known each other all that long, but I could tell that he was intrigued by me from the moment I met him. I've found myself a little more drawn to him lately. He has very pretty eyes.
Tracy came back with our shots, and we drank.
"This is such a perfect night for the beach," Tracy sighed.
"It's one-fifteen in the morning," Dylan pointed out.
"So?"
"So, it's... dark."
"Haven't you ever been to the beach at night?" she asked him.
"No."
Tracy and I looked at each other, then back at Dylan.
"Are you good to drive?" I asked him.
"Uh, yeah..."
"Awesome."
And that's how I ended up on the beach at 3 a.m.
Well, Tracy and I made our way through most of another pitcher first. And then there was a drive. Stopped at a red light on Santa Monica in West Hollywood, I saw someone I knew walking by and made the mistake of mentioning this. Tracy drunkenly leaned out the window and yelled to him, getting his name a little wrong. He still turned around. I sighed and opened the door.
"It's Summer," I called. "Please excuse my drunk friend."
"Oh, hey, Summer." We waved at each other, the light turned green, I closed the door, and Dylan continued driving west. Every now and then, he'd reach over and lightly touch my knee.
The signs at the beach parking lot said that anyone parked there between 2 and 6 a.m. was subject to being town away, but judging by the number of people who'd had the same idea we did, no one was taking the threat seriously. There was even a sheriff's truck keeping watch, its lights shining on a patch of sand so a bunch of teenagers could scrabble for something they'd lost.
Tracy, Dylan and I left our shoes in the car, rolled up our pants, and walked down to the water.
Tracy ran into the surf until the water was up to her knees. "The ocean does not judge us," Tracy lectured. "The ocean accepts us all for who we are."
I put my toe in the next wave that came to me. The water was warm, barely cooler than the air around us. The moonlight, fog and smoke combined to give the sky an eerie brownish glow.
Tracy started skipping down the beach, away from most of the people. Dylan and I lagged behind a little.
His face was close to my head. "Your hair smells nice," he said.
"Thanks."
He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around me so he could bury his nose in my hair. I laughed, because it was kind of funny. He untangled himself. I took his hand.
"Okay!" Tracy yelled. "Let's go in!"
"In our clothes?" Dylan asked.
"Unless you want get undressed and hope no one takes them."
Tracy charged in, ducking under a wave. She popped up, grinning.
"This is perfect for sitting," she declared. So Dylan and I walked over to where she was and sat down.
The water came midway up my chest, gently rocking me. It was warm. Sensual, even. And somehow sad, too. I wish I knew why. Probably because so much of this spring and summer sucked for me, and sitting here was part of it the summer. I've lost so many people these past few months. I'm fortunate that my family and longtime friends are still around; it's the people who color in my life to give it outlines, to paraphrase one of my favorite Kirsty MacColl lyrics, who have been disappearing. Some of them are still around physically, but not really there emotionally. Some of them have left. Some of them are just plain gone, in the most final sense. And it hurts. It really, really hurts.
I think I'm coming through it okay, all things considered. There's not much I can do about the stuff that's happening, that continues to happen, but I do my best to control how I react. Still, I'm not eating enough, I know. I'm tired all the time, but I can't sleep, especially when it's so hot. I take my antidepressants and my iron pills, throw myself into what work I can get. Meet my friends when I can. Tracy and I have split many pitchers this summer. I'm just trying to ride it out.
I leaned against Dylan. If Tracy hadn't been there, I might have kissed him, and it would have been for all the wrong reasons: Because I haven't kissed anyone since I ran into Scott a couple of months ago. Because Dylan's interested in me, so therefore I must be interested in him. Because I'm acting out. The right reasons would have been way down the list. And that wouldn't be fair to either of us.
Tracy popped out of a wave and joined us. We clustered together. Tracy and Dylan were giddy and touchy-feely. I was contemplative. I doubt they noticed.
"Hey, you know stuff," Tracy said to me. "What's that star over there? Is that Venus?"
I studied the bright spot. "You usually only see Venus at sunrise or sunset. And I know Mars is supposed to be really bright right now. See how it's kind of reddish? I'm thinking Mars."
"And what's that other one?"
"The one that's blinking and moving? That's an airplane."
I half-wanted to be on that plane, and half-wanted to stay sitting in the ocean forever. But we were getting chilly, and that meant it was time to go. So we left the water, squeezed out our clothes, and started the walk back.
"My hair probably smells all salty," I said to Dylan.
He came up behind me and sniffed. "Still smells nice to me."
By now we were back at his car. We all brushed off as much sand as we could -- there was nothing we could do about still being damp -- and piled in.
"So that's the beach at night," I said, as we sped down PCH.
"Yeah. Isn't it awesome, Dylan?" Tracy chimed in.
"Yeah."
We were quiet on the ride east.
Dylan and Tracy had come together, so they dropped me at my car and set off for the valley. I got in my car and drove home, trying to ignore the sand in my underwear. Other than that, I was completely, totally relaxed. For once.
I have to do that beach-at-night thing more often.
Tracy must have gotten a second wind, because around midnight, she texted me and asked if I wanted to meet her and her friend Dylan at a cantina that's about midway between our abodes. I was feeling better, and it's not like I had anything else to do. I threw on some clothes, slapped on a little makeup, and jumped in the the car.
By the time I got to the cantina, thigs had finally cooled off. It was the perfect weather for sitting on the patio, splitting cheap pitchers of beer. Tracy was already a little tipsy. Dylan was watching in amusement.
Tracy went up to the bar to get us shots. Dylan gave me a once-over.
"You look hot tonight," he told me. "I like your hair hanging down like that."
"Thanks," I replied. As he has no hair to speak of, I added, "That's a nice shirt."
We held each other's gazes until Tracy got back. Dylan and I haven't known each other all that long, but I could tell that he was intrigued by me from the moment I met him. I've found myself a little more drawn to him lately. He has very pretty eyes.
Tracy came back with our shots, and we drank.
"This is such a perfect night for the beach," Tracy sighed.
"It's one-fifteen in the morning," Dylan pointed out.
"So?"
"So, it's... dark."
"Haven't you ever been to the beach at night?" she asked him.
"No."
Tracy and I looked at each other, then back at Dylan.
"Are you good to drive?" I asked him.
"Uh, yeah..."
"Awesome."
And that's how I ended up on the beach at 3 a.m.
Well, Tracy and I made our way through most of another pitcher first. And then there was a drive. Stopped at a red light on Santa Monica in West Hollywood, I saw someone I knew walking by and made the mistake of mentioning this. Tracy drunkenly leaned out the window and yelled to him, getting his name a little wrong. He still turned around. I sighed and opened the door.
"It's Summer," I called. "Please excuse my drunk friend."
"Oh, hey, Summer." We waved at each other, the light turned green, I closed the door, and Dylan continued driving west. Every now and then, he'd reach over and lightly touch my knee.
The signs at the beach parking lot said that anyone parked there between 2 and 6 a.m. was subject to being town away, but judging by the number of people who'd had the same idea we did, no one was taking the threat seriously. There was even a sheriff's truck keeping watch, its lights shining on a patch of sand so a bunch of teenagers could scrabble for something they'd lost.
Tracy, Dylan and I left our shoes in the car, rolled up our pants, and walked down to the water.
Tracy ran into the surf until the water was up to her knees. "The ocean does not judge us," Tracy lectured. "The ocean accepts us all for who we are."
I put my toe in the next wave that came to me. The water was warm, barely cooler than the air around us. The moonlight, fog and smoke combined to give the sky an eerie brownish glow.
Tracy started skipping down the beach, away from most of the people. Dylan and I lagged behind a little.
His face was close to my head. "Your hair smells nice," he said.
"Thanks."
He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around me so he could bury his nose in my hair. I laughed, because it was kind of funny. He untangled himself. I took his hand.
"Okay!" Tracy yelled. "Let's go in!"
"In our clothes?" Dylan asked.
"Unless you want get undressed and hope no one takes them."
Tracy charged in, ducking under a wave. She popped up, grinning.
"This is perfect for sitting," she declared. So Dylan and I walked over to where she was and sat down.
The water came midway up my chest, gently rocking me. It was warm. Sensual, even. And somehow sad, too. I wish I knew why. Probably because so much of this spring and summer sucked for me, and sitting here was part of it the summer. I've lost so many people these past few months. I'm fortunate that my family and longtime friends are still around; it's the people who color in my life to give it outlines, to paraphrase one of my favorite Kirsty MacColl lyrics, who have been disappearing. Some of them are still around physically, but not really there emotionally. Some of them have left. Some of them are just plain gone, in the most final sense. And it hurts. It really, really hurts.
I think I'm coming through it okay, all things considered. There's not much I can do about the stuff that's happening, that continues to happen, but I do my best to control how I react. Still, I'm not eating enough, I know. I'm tired all the time, but I can't sleep, especially when it's so hot. I take my antidepressants and my iron pills, throw myself into what work I can get. Meet my friends when I can. Tracy and I have split many pitchers this summer. I'm just trying to ride it out.
I leaned against Dylan. If Tracy hadn't been there, I might have kissed him, and it would have been for all the wrong reasons: Because I haven't kissed anyone since I ran into Scott a couple of months ago. Because Dylan's interested in me, so therefore I must be interested in him. Because I'm acting out. The right reasons would have been way down the list. And that wouldn't be fair to either of us.
Tracy popped out of a wave and joined us. We clustered together. Tracy and Dylan were giddy and touchy-feely. I was contemplative. I doubt they noticed.
"Hey, you know stuff," Tracy said to me. "What's that star over there? Is that Venus?"
I studied the bright spot. "You usually only see Venus at sunrise or sunset. And I know Mars is supposed to be really bright right now. See how it's kind of reddish? I'm thinking Mars."
"And what's that other one?"
"The one that's blinking and moving? That's an airplane."
I half-wanted to be on that plane, and half-wanted to stay sitting in the ocean forever. But we were getting chilly, and that meant it was time to go. So we left the water, squeezed out our clothes, and started the walk back.
"My hair probably smells all salty," I said to Dylan.
He came up behind me and sniffed. "Still smells nice to me."
By now we were back at his car. We all brushed off as much sand as we could -- there was nothing we could do about still being damp -- and piled in.
"So that's the beach at night," I said, as we sped down PCH.
"Yeah. Isn't it awesome, Dylan?" Tracy chimed in.
"Yeah."
We were quiet on the ride east.
Dylan and Tracy had come together, so they dropped me at my car and set off for the valley. I got in my car and drove home, trying to ignore the sand in my underwear. Other than that, I was completely, totally relaxed. For once.
I have to do that beach-at-night thing more often.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
How do you work this crazy thing?
Ron and I seem to be slowly, skittishly fumbling our way towards something, and I am completely out of my depth.
I'm used to being good at things, or at the very least having a clue what I'm doing. I often think that there must have been a day in junior high when everyone went over relationships and proper application of eyeliner, but I missed it because I was cramming for the AP European History test. (I was precocious, okay?)
Eyeliner, I was eventually able to figure out. Relationships, not so much. Especially the part at the beginning. How do you know if talking and hanging out is the start of something, or if it's just talking and hanging out? Did I miss something about a ratings system or a standard form when I was trying to keep my King Johns and Charlses straight?
Everyone else seems to know when it's worth it to pursue something. I get hung up on every guy who shows an interest in me. I know this about myself, and I chalk it up to my mind's love of mental chewing gum. If there are clues that there's something more substantial there, I never see them.
Ron doesn't seem to be much better at it. I wonder what his excuse is.
I gave him a ride the other night. We'd had a week of mis- and non-communication, culminating in me leaving him a message -- after two martinis and a shot to a departed friend -- telling him to call me if he ever figured out what he fuck he wanted. I was still kind of pissed at him, but he was in a sketchy situation and I was five minutes away.
When I picked him up, his breath could have turned a kitchen match into a flamethrower. I got him into my car and drove him home.
"Why are you so mean to me?" he whined during the ride. "Oh, isn't this cute? We're holding hands."
"I'm not mean. You pissed me off. I warned you you were pissing me off and that you wouldn't like me when I'm pissed. And I kinda need that hand if I'm going to make this turn."
I walked into his place with him, because I didn't want him tripping and smacking his head on the pavement. That turned out to be me who tripped, only I just nicked my foot. Nothing I'm not used to.
We greeted the dog and lay down on the bed. I had my head on his shoulder, my body almost perpendicular to his.
"What do you... I mean, I think you're awesome, but I... Oh, I don't know what I'm saying."
I don't think he would have been much more coherent if he hadn't been drinking. But the meaning was evident.
"I like you," I said. "I like when we hang out. Can't that be enough for now?"
"I mean, if you want to fuck..."
"What's the rush?" I yawned. "And does it look like either of us is up for it anyway? Let's just be here. Being here is nice."
"Yeah." He reached into my shirt and stroked a breast. It felt familiar, in an odd sort of way.
The dog walked over and dropped a tennis ball next to my hand. I picked it up and threw it across the room. She retrieved it and took it to her favorite pillow, and we all fell asleep.
I'm used to being good at things, or at the very least having a clue what I'm doing. I often think that there must have been a day in junior high when everyone went over relationships and proper application of eyeliner, but I missed it because I was cramming for the AP European History test. (I was precocious, okay?)
Eyeliner, I was eventually able to figure out. Relationships, not so much. Especially the part at the beginning. How do you know if talking and hanging out is the start of something, or if it's just talking and hanging out? Did I miss something about a ratings system or a standard form when I was trying to keep my King Johns and Charlses straight?
Everyone else seems to know when it's worth it to pursue something. I get hung up on every guy who shows an interest in me. I know this about myself, and I chalk it up to my mind's love of mental chewing gum. If there are clues that there's something more substantial there, I never see them.
Ron doesn't seem to be much better at it. I wonder what his excuse is.
I gave him a ride the other night. We'd had a week of mis- and non-communication, culminating in me leaving him a message -- after two martinis and a shot to a departed friend -- telling him to call me if he ever figured out what he fuck he wanted. I was still kind of pissed at him, but he was in a sketchy situation and I was five minutes away.
When I picked him up, his breath could have turned a kitchen match into a flamethrower. I got him into my car and drove him home.
"Why are you so mean to me?" he whined during the ride. "Oh, isn't this cute? We're holding hands."
"I'm not mean. You pissed me off. I warned you you were pissing me off and that you wouldn't like me when I'm pissed. And I kinda need that hand if I'm going to make this turn."
I walked into his place with him, because I didn't want him tripping and smacking his head on the pavement. That turned out to be me who tripped, only I just nicked my foot. Nothing I'm not used to.
We greeted the dog and lay down on the bed. I had my head on his shoulder, my body almost perpendicular to his.
"What do you... I mean, I think you're awesome, but I... Oh, I don't know what I'm saying."
I don't think he would have been much more coherent if he hadn't been drinking. But the meaning was evident.
"I like you," I said. "I like when we hang out. Can't that be enough for now?"
"I mean, if you want to fuck..."
"What's the rush?" I yawned. "And does it look like either of us is up for it anyway? Let's just be here. Being here is nice."
"Yeah." He reached into my shirt and stroked a breast. It felt familiar, in an odd sort of way.
The dog walked over and dropped a tennis ball next to my hand. I picked it up and threw it across the room. She retrieved it and took it to her favorite pillow, and we all fell asleep.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Interesting.
Ron's started calling me again. No apparent reason. Not that I'm complaining.
Our communication had tapered off, as is known to happen -- and then two months after we last spoke, he called me at about 2:30 a.m. And again around 2:33. Didn't leave messages, of course. How sweet, I thought. All this time after I gave him a ride home and we messed around a little, it turns out I'm on his bootie call list.
I texted him the next day, inquiring about the inferred hangover, and it's been back and forth since.
"I thought you were going to be at the bar tonight," he said via phone after one karaoke night. "I came to find you."
"I was there. You know, I thought I saw you, but I wasn't sure."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because when I looked again ten seconds later, you weren't there anymore." And because when a guy hasn't show up somewhere for months, why think he might start now?
"I love how you're so smart," he said. "I want to lie around with you and do puzzles and make out."
If I hadn't been sitting, I might have swooned. "What are you doing right now?"
"Getting ready for bed. I have to be at a meeting across town at 8:30."
And so on, and so on.
Huh. Interesting. This might even be worth getting my hopes up.
I kinda wish that Ron had told me how hot he finds my brain via text instead of voice, because I would have loved to brandish that in front of Ruby the next time she gets drunk and starts telling me that I've gotta tone down the smart if I don't want to be single for the rest of my life. As if that were inherently a bad thing.
For now, I'll take the flirty texting, and whatever may happen to come from it.
Our communication had tapered off, as is known to happen -- and then two months after we last spoke, he called me at about 2:30 a.m. And again around 2:33. Didn't leave messages, of course. How sweet, I thought. All this time after I gave him a ride home and we messed around a little, it turns out I'm on his bootie call list.
I texted him the next day, inquiring about the inferred hangover, and it's been back and forth since.
"I thought you were going to be at the bar tonight," he said via phone after one karaoke night. "I came to find you."
"I was there. You know, I thought I saw you, but I wasn't sure."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because when I looked again ten seconds later, you weren't there anymore." And because when a guy hasn't show up somewhere for months, why think he might start now?
"I love how you're so smart," he said. "I want to lie around with you and do puzzles and make out."
If I hadn't been sitting, I might have swooned. "What are you doing right now?"
"Getting ready for bed. I have to be at a meeting across town at 8:30."
And so on, and so on.
Huh. Interesting. This might even be worth getting my hopes up.
I kinda wish that Ron had told me how hot he finds my brain via text instead of voice, because I would have loved to brandish that in front of Ruby the next time she gets drunk and starts telling me that I've gotta tone down the smart if I don't want to be single for the rest of my life. As if that were inherently a bad thing.
For now, I'll take the flirty texting, and whatever may happen to come from it.
Friday, July 03, 2009
About that bruising
With most men, I'm a right pushy bitch. But with the few I choose to fuck, I'm downright middle-of-the-road. I pretty much just want to have with the sex, and putting too much ceremony to it just wastes time that could be better spent fucking. If that makes me vanilla, so be it. So far, I've had no complaints.
Alan, my occasionally-visiting friend, is a bit more on the dominant side. The first time we met in person -- after he'd written to me on a social network which shall remain nameless, but isn't the one you're thinking of, and we'd done the requisite flirting via email and text -- I told him that if he wanted to push me around a little, fine. Just don't do anything that could actually hurt me. He's welcome to try to push boundaries a tiny bit, or ask me if I'd be up for trying something, but must understand that the odds are that I'm going to say no. This was agreeable to him, and we had a fine time testing out the mattress in his hotel room.
There's something in our particular alchemy that makes things blissfully hazy for me. So it's hard to pinpoint exactly what caused the bruising during his last visit.
I met Alan in the lobby of the hotel where he was staying. When we got to his room, I perched on the edge of the bed while he made a phone call. So it's possible that it happened when he pushed me back and lifted my skirt, which from my angle made it look like he was ordering our dinner through my panties.
Or maybe it happened when we'd shed our clothes, and he was leaning over me while I sucked him, and he was using my breasts for balance.
The bruising isn't quite the right shape and size to have been caused when when Alan decided to see whether gently biting the side of a breast has the same effect on me as getting my nipple nibbled. (No. No, it doesn't. All it got him was a terse "Ow!" He wisely stopped.)
Or it could have been when we were fucking, me on my back, him on his knees, one of his hands pinning me down and the other squeezing a boob with a great amount of enthusiasm.
It's also possible that after I'd flipped over, his hard thrusts shoved me into the mattress with enough force to leave a mark. I wouldn't have registered it, since my attention was focused on trying to figure out whether, when he kept asking if I "like[d] that," he was referring to the finger rubbing my asshole - which: um, okay... - or to the cock pounding into me, which: um, yes. (Fortunately for the flow, it was the latter.)
Later, when we were resting, the curve of my back fitting into him like a kitten nestles into the palm of your hand, he might have squeezed me a little too hard. I wouldn't have noticed in my contented half-consciousness.
Or, perhaps, it was later, after he'd walked me to the parking lot and we'd said our goodbyes, when I managed to trip over my own feet and smack my chest right into my car door.
Yeah, it was probably just me being a klutz. Still, I'm going to declare that it was one or all of the rest of them, because it's a much better story.
Alan, my occasionally-visiting friend, is a bit more on the dominant side. The first time we met in person -- after he'd written to me on a social network which shall remain nameless, but isn't the one you're thinking of, and we'd done the requisite flirting via email and text -- I told him that if he wanted to push me around a little, fine. Just don't do anything that could actually hurt me. He's welcome to try to push boundaries a tiny bit, or ask me if I'd be up for trying something, but must understand that the odds are that I'm going to say no. This was agreeable to him, and we had a fine time testing out the mattress in his hotel room.
There's something in our particular alchemy that makes things blissfully hazy for me. So it's hard to pinpoint exactly what caused the bruising during his last visit.
I met Alan in the lobby of the hotel where he was staying. When we got to his room, I perched on the edge of the bed while he made a phone call. So it's possible that it happened when he pushed me back and lifted my skirt, which from my angle made it look like he was ordering our dinner through my panties.
Or maybe it happened when we'd shed our clothes, and he was leaning over me while I sucked him, and he was using my breasts for balance.
The bruising isn't quite the right shape and size to have been caused when when Alan decided to see whether gently biting the side of a breast has the same effect on me as getting my nipple nibbled. (No. No, it doesn't. All it got him was a terse "Ow!" He wisely stopped.)
Or it could have been when we were fucking, me on my back, him on his knees, one of his hands pinning me down and the other squeezing a boob with a great amount of enthusiasm.
It's also possible that after I'd flipped over, his hard thrusts shoved me into the mattress with enough force to leave a mark. I wouldn't have registered it, since my attention was focused on trying to figure out whether, when he kept asking if I "like[d] that," he was referring to the finger rubbing my asshole - which: um, okay... - or to the cock pounding into me, which: um, yes. (Fortunately for the flow, it was the latter.)
Later, when we were resting, the curve of my back fitting into him like a kitten nestles into the palm of your hand, he might have squeezed me a little too hard. I wouldn't have noticed in my contented half-consciousness.
Or, perhaps, it was later, after he'd walked me to the parking lot and we'd said our goodbyes, when I managed to trip over my own feet and smack my chest right into my car door.
Yeah, it was probably just me being a klutz. Still, I'm going to declare that it was one or all of the rest of them, because it's a much better story.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Now, this is just getting ridiculous
My breasts have gone up a cup size.
I gave it a while before making it official. I thought it might be regular monthly fluctuations, or my usual weight fluctuations, or some weird post-surgery thing.
Nope. I'm now an F-cup.
Which is a problem.
Once you get above a DD, it's hard to find bras in your average department store. What DDDs exist in my price range tend to be minimizers, which inspire a rant in me that can be summed up thusly: "No."
For an F-cup, it's specialty stores or mail-order. Neither road is particularly cheap. And if this F-cup state is just a temporary thing - in either direction - I don't want to spend a lot of money on bras I'll only be wearing for a little while.
Hmm. Whaddaya think, gang? Amazon wish list? Because while there are certainly more pressing causes to which to donate one's money, the girls do look awfully nice in the one bra I could afford. Even the bruising looks perky.
Oh, right. The bruising. There's a story in that...
I gave it a while before making it official. I thought it might be regular monthly fluctuations, or my usual weight fluctuations, or some weird post-surgery thing.
Nope. I'm now an F-cup.
Which is a problem.
Once you get above a DD, it's hard to find bras in your average department store. What DDDs exist in my price range tend to be minimizers, which inspire a rant in me that can be summed up thusly: "No."
For an F-cup, it's specialty stores or mail-order. Neither road is particularly cheap. And if this F-cup state is just a temporary thing - in either direction - I don't want to spend a lot of money on bras I'll only be wearing for a little while.
Hmm. Whaddaya think, gang? Amazon wish list? Because while there are certainly more pressing causes to which to donate one's money, the girls do look awfully nice in the one bra I could afford. Even the bruising looks perky.
Oh, right. The bruising. There's a story in that...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
